He had found issues to focus on, and he could feel the enmity starting to grow. Was he making a mistake? Should he have been more circumspect, waited longer? Or should he have ignored his inclinations altogether and listened to those who knew and understood more?
What was strange was how little time he had spent back in Africa thinking about these momentous matters. It had taken so much energy just keeping the Church alive—not to mention himself, and his people—so much energy just fighting for justice and freedom, that he'd had none left for other concerns. What did the ordination of women or priestly celibacy or the morality of contraception matter next to the life and death issues he was facing?
But in the end he had won. His country was free, though not without its share of Third World problems. The Church was thriving—and there was the difference. Suddenly the problems that obsessed the Americans and Europeans were beginning to be his own problems as well. Democracy had made people start to think, and with thinking came questions and dissent and demands for change. And their questions had led to some of his own. The old orthodoxies began to seem less comfortable, more of an obstacle, than they had before.
He recalled the stories he had told in the meeting with the cardinals. There were dozens such anecdotes that he could have brought up. They were hardly unique, hardly eye-opening. The cardinals themselves, if they had any contact at all with the world outside the Vatican, would have had similar experiences.
But there are always stories, always human problems. What does one do about them? Gurdani had been a good soldier, had never strayed into controversial areas. The pastoral advice he gave to the priest who wanted to be released from his vows, the mother who wanted to use birth control, was unobjectionable, though not what they wanted to hear. Otherwise he would not have been elected pope. But with the election he had a chance, and an obligation, to follow the changes that had started to develop in his own conscience.
He prayed to God to help him find his way along this path.
Finally he thought of his mother, as he did frequently nowadays. He recalled his years in the seminary. Oh, she was desperately proud of him when he entered. Her son—a priest! But at one point he was having a crisis of conscience over some obscure point of dogma—the virgin birth, probably; he had always found that one perplexing. He had confided this to her, and told her that if he couldn't resolve it he might be forced to give up the idea of the priesthood. And she had said: "Don't let anyone tell you what to believe. And don't ever pretend to believe what in your heart you know is false. Nothing is worth that, not even the priesthood."
Oh, she would have made a wonderful priest—but she would never have finished the seminary, much less lasted forty years after ordination. You have to train your conscience to obedience in the Church, and this was something she could not do.
He smiled at the thought of her giving God advice, as she would have been more than willing to do. God could do worse than to take it.
And then, creaky-jointed, his back on fire, he arose from the prie-dieu.
His mother would have made many enemies in the Church, as he himself was in the process of doing. But as usual, in prayer God had given him the guidance he sought. Cardinal Valli, at least, did not appear to be his enemy. He would follow Valli's advice and go to America, where he would try to ease old enmities and start the Church on the thorny new path his conscience had chosen for it.
He wondered how America would respond.
* * *
Cardinal Valli lived two floors below the pope in the Apostolic Palace. Curial Cardinals do not get paid much, but he was always receiving gifts or honoraria of one sort or another, so he did not lack for money. It didn't matter, though; what money he had, he gave away. He cared nothing about luxuries or personal comfort, and he despised those who did have a fondness for such things.
When he returned to his apartment after his usual fourteen-hour day upstairs at work, he made a cup of tea, ate a small meal of pasta and boiled chicken that his housekeeper had left for him, and then went immediately to his small chapel.
It was there, finally, that he could truly come alive.
He wore a hair shirt next to his skin, and by the end of the day the discomfort was almost unbearable. But that was the point. The shirt was a reminder of his own sinfulness, and as such needed to be worn as much as possible. God demanded penance.
Once in the chapel he fell onto the floor in front of the Blessed Sacrament and lay, face down, arms outstretched, like a man nailed to a cross. He stayed there on the floor, a miserable sinner in mute adoration of his Maker, his Judge.
God demanded much of him besides penance. This, too, was almost unbearable. Let this cup pass away. But it wasn't going to pass away; he knew that now, though he didn't really understand. It was presumptuous to even try to understand. He knew only that he had been denied the papacy for a reason—perhaps as a rebuke to his pride, which constantly bedeviled him. He knew only that the new pope was a test, like so many others that had come his way. And it fell to him to try to figure out what to do about this test.
Not my will, but Thine be done.
It was never easy, but this was so hard, so hard. Gurdani was intent on changing everything, on pulling down all that they had struggled so hard to put into place, on reintroducing the discredited ideas that would threaten the Church's stability and moral authority. That much was clear now. Should Valli be complicit in this? Should he assist the pope, as he had done this afternoon?
What was the alternative?
The Church demanded obedience.
But God demanded much more.
Valli groaned in agony, of both body and spirit. He had given his life to the Church, to God. But it wasn't enough. Would anything ever be enough?
Suffering eventually brings you to a new place. You are forced to focus beyond your body, beyond earthly concerns, if you are to stay sane, if you are to survive.
You are forced into God.
Valli felt himself lifted up from the cold floor, felt the world disappear, felt everything disappear, until all that was left was God. But God, too, was everything.
"You ask too much, Lord," he managed to whisper.
God was silent. But the silence was itself a reply. I do not ask for more than you can give Me.
"But I need to be sure, Lord. How can I be sure?"
I have been here for you all your life. Do you doubt Me now?
"No, Lord. No, no." And the no became a howl from deep inside him, a fierce scream of despair. And, ultimately, of capitulation. Thy will be done, he gasped finally, and blacked out.
When Valli came to he was still on the floor. His body was soaked with sweat. His arms trembled as he moved them.
"Thy will be done," he murmured again as he got to his feet.
I have talked the pope into going to America, he thought. The land of billionaires and drag queens and the Ku Klux Klan. And that is where it will begin.
He stripped off his clothes and the hair shirt, and prepared for another restless night's sleep.
* * *
It took Riccielli a couple of days, but finally he set up the meeting Donato had demanded, and at ten o'clock at night he and Donato took a taxi to a side street near the Colosseum. There the two of them waited nervously until a long black car with smoked-glass windows pulled up. They got inside.
The man opposite them in the back seat was short and stocky, with curly black hair and a small goatee. He was wearing sneakers, jeans, and a sweatshirt with the likeness of the new pope on it. "What do you think?" he asked, pointing at the sweatshirt. "Amazing how fast they can put out this sort of thing. The wonders of capitalism, eh?"
Neither of them responded. The man gestured to the driver, and the limousine pulled away from the curb. Riccielli was grateful for the smoked glass. He did not want to be seen here; he did not want to be here. He was wearing civilian clothing, and he felt terribly uncomfortable. He was proud to be a prince of the Church, and this was not the way a prince of the
Church should look or act.
The man smiled affably at them. "And what do you think of your new leader?" he asked. "An interesting choice, I must say. Not exactly what people were expecting."
"He wants to know about the bank's finances," Riccielli said. "That's why we're here."
"Specific questions? Or just: 'I know nothing. Tell me what I need to know'?"
"It's the latter, for now. But there's no telling how deeply he'll want to probe."
"Well, for goodness' sake, where he comes from, the desert or the jungle or whatever, they don't even know what a bank is. Surely you can satisfy his curiosity without arousing his suspicion."
Riccielli glanced at Donato, who was clasping and unclasping his hands as if trying to decide whether to pray. "Possibly," Riccielli responded. "He is not stupid, though, however ignorant he may be. There is risk."
"We have always known there would be risk," the man said blandly, staring out the window at the passing traffic.
"But we have never decided exactly what to do. When the time comes, we would say. Well, the time has arrived."
The man did not reply for a few moments. When he did, he veered away from Riccielli's topic. "Is he a reformer, do you think? Or is it business as usual at the Vatican?"
"I believe we will see some changes," Riccielli waffled. "One always does, of course, with a new pope."
"I hear that sex is on the table. So to speak."
Donato's eyes widened. He had six or seven children; Riccielli couldn't keep track. Good obedient Catholic husband. "I don't think I would characterize anything in particular as 'on the table,' as you put it," Riccielli said. "Pope John encourages frank dialogue and an open exchange of ideas, even about controversial topics. Which is not to say that the Church will change any of its fundamental positions. That would be out of the question."
"Is he frightening the Curia?"
Riccielli couldn't stand this interrogation, but didn't know how to stop it. "Of course not. He is an exciting, charismatic new leader. The Church is blessed to have him."
"Oh come off it. Some of those fossils in the congregations are probably wetting their cassocks wondering what he's going to do. Does he frighten you?"
"Not at all," the cardinal replied. "Pope John is a very holy man."
"God save me from holy men," the man muttered. "Especially when they have an interest in finance."
"But that's the point," Donato blurted out, speaking for the first time. "He's interested. Therefore we're at risk. We must stop everything, immediately. This can't continue."
The man stroked his goatee. "I hear the Holy Father is going to America," he said, ignoring Donato.
Riccielli shivered. And how did he know that, along with his other information? The decision had just been made; only a few cardinals had been informed. "Yes," he admitted. "The planning is underway."
"That's a clever move on his part," the man said. "Americans will love him, if he can fire a few bishops and stop himself from lecturing them about imperialism and materialism and every other ism they're guilty of."
"But what's it got to do with our problem?" Donato demanded. "I don't care about America. I care about the Vatican Bank. I care about... about certain of its deposits and investments. Again, the—the irregularities must stop. Now."
The man shrugged. "Why do you think that stopping now will make any difference? The 'irregularities' are there already. They aren't going to magically disappear."
"No, but perhaps ongoing irregularities would be viewed more harshly than ones that occurred in the past," Donato said. "Something is better than nothing."
The man appeared to consider. "I don't want to be unreasonable," he responded mildly. "Tell you what. Let's talk again after the pope's trip to America. He'll be busy with planning before then. And afterwards—well, that may be the time to reconsider our situation."
Donato looked suspicious, but Riccielli knew how intimidated he was by the bearded man. He could bluster all he wanted, but it wouldn't change anything, and he knew it. "Very well," he said grudgingly. "After America. But I am warning you that this can't continue—not with a pope who cares."
The man inclined his head in agreement. "After America," he repeated.
Riccielli shivered. He is the enemy, the cardinal thought, not for the first time. No matter how closely they worked together, it did not pay to forget this basic fact. He would be astonished if the man were really willing to break off his relationship with the bank; certainly he wouldn't do it just to ease Donato's mind.
What was so special about America? Was he just putting off Donato by talking about it? But he didn't have to do that. He could just turn him down and let Donato rant. There was nothing the banker could do, not without jeopardizing his own career, and even his freedom. And Donato knew it, which was why he was so terrified. So was there something else going on? If so, it was something Riccielli couldn't begin to let into his brain.
Donato seemed to have nothing more to say, and Riccielli suddenly felt even more uncomfortable than he usually did in the presence of the bearded man. He had done what he could; Donato would have to be satisfied. "You may drop us off wherever it's convenient," the cardinal said.
The man nodded with indifference and signaled to the driver.
* * *
He gazed after them as they walked quickly away from the limousine. Frightened little men. Frightened of him, frightened of their new boss. But give them power over others, and watch them threaten and bully. He could imagine the fat banker with his family, lord of his little realm, terrorizing his wife and children with his demands and his pronouncements. And the cardinal—oh, he knew about priests. This new pope was evidently talking about changing the Church. And the words would sound good to many. But nothing would really change. It was all about power. Once you have power, you do not willingly give it up, no matter what pious platitudes you mouth.
And he had a more pressing problem than the future of Church doctrine. This new pope was an unexpected complication that had to be dealt with. What in the world had the conclave been thinking of when they elected him? Had Gurdani put some kind of spell on them?
The solution to the problem might have been obvious, but still it required absolute clarity of thought and purpose. The man did not like to fail.
He noticed that they were waiting at a light next to a church, which loomed in serene, spotlit splendor over the puny humans below. A grimy beggar was approaching the limousine, and the man could see his driver tensing, preparing to run the light. The man rolled down his window.
"In Jesus' name, can you spare a few lire?" the beggar asked in a croaking, alcohol-sodden voice.
The man reached into his wallet and handed the wretch every bill he had.
"God bless you, sir," the beggar said, his eyes wide with astonishment.
The man just laughed and rolled up his window as the limousine sped off.
Chapter 6
Robert Coulter drove into Boston in the early evening. He listened to the news, but reports about the murder had all but petered out. The suspect, 28-year-old Robert Coulter, remains at large. Coulter is also wanted in connection with the murder of two other abortion providers....
Instead of the murder, the stations were talking about the new pope's visit to America, and the possibility that his first stop would be in Boston. Coulter hadn't had much chance to think about the new pope. One pope was much like another, he assumed.
On the road into the city he saw a billboard of a good-looking man with a stern expression staring at the passing cars.
McALLISTER
TALK RADIO 580
HE'S GOT THE ANSWERS
He turned off the news and founded 580 on the dial. He had heard of Ed McAllister. McAllister spoke the truth.
Today there was a lot of stuff about race that he wasn't interested in, but then one woman caller started blathering about the right to an abortion when McAllister cut her off. "Abortion isn't a right, lady, it's murder for the sake of conve
nience. It makes life easier—unless you're the person who's murdered, of course. Not only is it murder, it's the worst kind of murder, because you're killing absolutely the most innocent, most defenseless human beings in existence. If we have a right to do that, in God's name what don't we have a right to do?"
Who could have put it more clearly? It gave Coulter some hope for the future that McAllister was so popular. If people were listening to him, maybe things could still change. His heart lifted as he searched for the small motel outside the city where he was supposed to stay. When he found it, he checked in using his latest alias. Once in his small, musty room he called a number and left a message. Then he took out his beads and said the rosary while he waited.
An hour later there was a knock on the door. Coulter opened it and faced a tall man with pale skin, thin brown hair, and fierce eyes. The man shook hands silently with Coulter and followed him inside.
His name was David Leahy and, like Coulter, he was a Protector of the Unborn. The Protectors were a small group of men and women who had given up on marches and political action and even civil disobedience in their fight against the scourge of abortion. All those methods had been tried, and all had failed. They knew they were at war, and were prepared to do what soldiers did during a war. They were determined to go beyond man's law to ensure that God's law was obeyed.
Leahy, Coulter knew, had been to jail multiple times for his beliefs. He had lost his career and his life's savings and most of his friends. But his commitment had never wavered.
They didn't speak about Coulter's latest triumph, though he longed to describe it to someone who would appreciate what he had done. Instead, Leahy offered a quick congratulations, then got down to business. "It's time for a new identity," he said. "You'll need to lie low for a while."
Coulter nodded. The Protectors had friends willing to help with such things.
Pontiff (A Thriller) Page 6